


109 - What Catfish Means

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Hero Van, Other, Reader-Insert, mental health, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A fic about: Meeting Van McCann as a fan of Catfish, and telling him all the things he needs to know.





	109 - What Catfish Means

The hotel had put a barricade around the entrance. Maybe it was because of how many people showed up to meet Catfish the night before, but maybe it was because there were a lot of bands staying there for the festival. Either way, it was clear the crowd that had formed were all there to meet Van and his band. Bob had come out first, and people were in love with his softness, and his unassuming joy whenever someone genuinely wanted to meet him. Everyone did genuinely want to meet him though; so he was all smiles. Next, a drunk Bondy fell through the door. Benji followed close by, holding him up for the entire time. People wanted to feel the red velvet shirt, and get Snapchat filtered selfies with Benji. Once they left, it was quiet. Minutes turned into two hours, and people left, sure Van wouldn’t make an appearance.

There were only a handful of people left standing when Larry popped his head out, then signalled at someone inside. Van strolled out and walked directly to you. You looked at him and everything you expected the moment to be crashed and burned in the wake of seeing him in person. You had anticipated crying and forgetting your own name; lost for words and shaky. However, as he looked at you and tilted his head to the side, you knew what you needed him to know.

"Hi," you said in barely a whisper.

"Hello, love,"

"I just… have to tell you something… but it's a bit intense,"

"Nothin's too intense. What's up?" he replied happily. You wondered what he thought you could say. Probably not what you did, though. 

You spoke carefully, pausing when you needed to think. As you told him your story, about the hurt and the hopelessness, his face got increasingly sadder. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stepped up to the barrier. His hands curled around the bars, knuckles going white. Faith in the future is what his music had given you. It was the only fucking silver lining when there was literally not a fucking thing left on the face of the earth worth a damn. In the simplest terms, and in the most profound way, Van McCann's stupid fucking brain dead rock music had saved your life. Sitting in the small space between your bed and the wall, listening to the albums on vinyl, you had mended your broken heart. You had learnt to swallow your grief. You had let yourself dream of tomorrow again. You needed him to know, and as he watched you, his eyes going glassy and his breathing hitching, he knew.

When you were done you breathed out a shaky breathe. You could feel your friend next to you watching silently, and Larry was standing close by also monitoring. Looking into Van's eyes, you waited for him to say something. He moved then, quickly, suddenly, and pulled you into a hug. His arms gripped you tighter than anyone had hugged you before, and you could feel his fingers digging into your back. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and you could hear his hard breathing. He didn't know what to do, and that was evident. People never did. They never knew how to react to such a sad fucking story. You hugged him back and it felt more like you were consoling him, rather than him you.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry," he whispered, not letting go. You laughed a little; gently.

"You don't need to be. That's what I'm saying, you know?"

"No. It's not enough. I'm so, so, so fucking sorry," he said again. He let you go but moved his hands to hold your face. He looked at you carefully, and you didn't know what you were meant to do. He breathed out and looked over at your friend. She laughed.

"I know, dude," she said. He shook his head at her in amazement, then looked back at you.

"Stay here, yeah? I just… Fuck." He let you go, stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. He wiped his face along his sleeve and looked over at Larry. You couldn't tell what they were saying to each other silently; micro-expressions only they could read in each other. Back to you, "Please don't go anywhere. Just stay here for a minute." His voice was a beg, and you nodded and watched him walk over to the other fans. They had been videoing the interaction, but you wanted the videos to cease to exist.

Turning to your friend, she looked at you differently. "I told you he'd get it," she said and held her arms out. You collapsed into her and breathed in her familiar smell until you could think again. When you let go she ran a thumb under your eyes. You didn't know you'd been crying.

A few minutes later, once the others had photos and autographs and experiences that would shape their very fucking souls, Van was back in front of you. He unclipped one of the barricades from the next, making space for you to walk through. You looked at him, not moving. "Come on," he instructed. You took your friend’s hand and led her through the gap, then into the hotel behind Van and Larry. In the elevator, Van stood in front of you and pulled you into another hug. He rocked from one foot to the other and you weren't sure what was happening.

In the hotel room, which was a small space with two double beds, and an adjoining bathroom, Larry sat on one of the beds, legs out and back against the headboard. Your friend kicked off her shoes and sat on the other bed cross-legged; like she's been around Van and Larry her whole life.

"Tea?" Van asked the room.

"Can I?" you asked, moving to the small space where a kettle and generic tea sat. Van nodded but followed. He leant against the cupboard, watching you. The right combinations and ratios of sugar and milk, you handed out the mugs. Van sat on the floor, his back against the bed. You sat next to him.

He wanted more of the story, the whole thing. From your birth, your earliest memory, to that very point in time. Graphic, painful, horrible detail. As you recounted everything, you held back tears. His arm, hip, and leg were pressed against yours, and eventually, he rested his head on your shoulder, listening. When the tea was finished, he took your hand and traced patterns over it as you spoke. Your friend and Larry were deep in conversation too, but you could hear it was light hearted and just filling time while they waited for their respective best friends to finish pouring their souls into each other.

When your voice was hoarse there was a quiet in the room. You looked over; at some point Larry and your friend had climbed under the covers and had passed out. "What's the time?" you asked.

Looking over at the bedside alarm clock, Van replied, "Almost five in the morning."

"Fuck. I better go,"

"No. Might as well stay here. Come on," he said, standing and holding a hand out.

Curled up in bed, you left space between your body and Van's. Alone with your thoughts, with all the washed up memories and meant-to-be forgotten emotions, you were suddenly overwhelmed. You held you your hands across your mouth and fucking begged yourself to shut up. Your legs came up to your chest and your body went numb.

"Y/N? What's wrong?" Van whispered. You didn't reply. He moved across the space and pushed your legs down and hands away from your face. You breathed in hard and bit down on your lip. "What's happenin'?” 

"I…" you tried and your voice was nothing but a squeak. "It's just hard to have to think about it all," was the best you could offer him.

"Okay. Can you hold it in for like, ten minutes? Give me ten minutes, okay?"

His forehead was pressed against yours, and you nodded. He quickly got out of the bed, still clothed, and quietly left the room. You balled yourself up and started to rock, imploding, imploding, fucking imploding.

Van came back in less than ten minutes, pulling you out of bed and out of the room. He held you in the elevator, and pushed you down a hall and into a different hotel room. As he did he said, "Okay, go," and you knew it was permission to lose it. So, you did. You fell to the floor and sobbed. Van knelt in front of you, let you cry, then bundled you up in his arms. "I'm so, so fucking sorry, Y/N. I'd take it all away if I could. I'd give all my life back if it meant you could have been alright," he whispered as he rocked you.

For someone that had never really suffered in their life, never really knew what it was like to fall apart like that, he was good at looking after you. When you could stand, you followed him into the bed. You'd exhausted yourself, and him, and you both fell asleep quickly as the first rays of daybreak rose over the horizon.

You woke up to the sound of Van laughing. He was sitting on the floor across the room on the phone. Your phone. "No, it's really me!" he said.

"Who is it?" you asked. He smirked at you.

"Yeah. No, she's fine. You did a fuckin’ class job at raisin' her… She's so strong and kind and good… Yeah… No, don't. Just a kid in a band. Can't take that much credit. She kept herself alive…" He was talking to someone in your family. It was unclear who. Someone who knew you, knew what Van meant to you, and who 'raised' you. There were a few people that could have been. 

Van's happy expression changed then, and he got the same wounded look on his face that he had when you'd first told him everything. He started to pick at the threads of the hole in his jeans. His eyes went glassy again, and his head kept shaking in little nos. When he spoke, his voice was more quiet, and it kept breaking. "I can't even imagine what any of this was like. Worse that's happened to me was when my best mate got hurt, and some breakups. That's just… It's nothing compared to this. I'd give up all my easiness for you guys…" He started to cry. He'd not cried for the whole time he'd been with you. Whoever was on the phone, though, had been the final straw. "I'd fix it if I could." He was quiet for a long while, listening, nodding. Eventually he started to laugh. The conversation ended, and he hung over. He threw your phone over to you. You read the call history. Of course.

"Hi," you said, looking up from your phone.

"Hey. You alright? How are you?"

"Big question," you replied. He nodded.

"I get that now," he said. "Should we go back?"

You followed him through the hotel. Your friend and Larry were awake, with tea. You said goodbye to Larry, with a hug. He said, "I think you've changed him a bit," as he pulled away. You didn't know what to say.

Van stood in front of the elevator. Your friend held the door open after hugging Van goodbye. She thanked him. Van held you, close and hard. When he let go, you gasped and quickly went to take his hoodie off. You’d slept in it and it probably helped hold the nightmares at bay. "No. No. Keep it," he said.

"You can't just give your stuff to every kid with a sad story, Van,"

"I don't know what else to do, though," he replied honestly. You nodded and accepted the hoodie. He hugged you again and kissed your cheek. "Stay alive, yeah? I need you on this earth,"

"I'm trying my best."

The elevator doors closed, and it felt like part of your lifeline had been severed. A new one, though, had formed. In the early hours of the morning, as Van told you secrets about the new album, and you asked him all the things you'd always needed to, something grew in you. If people like Van McCann, happy and healthy and kind and thankful, existed, and if people like him could love you as much as he fucking did, then there would always be hope for the future. When he would message you on Instagram every couple of days, and when he wrote your name into the third album, you knew you were unbreakable.


End file.
